Scapegrace by Alison Hurwitz

Scapegrace

My son does not want Anne of Green Gables
to make any more mistakes. First, a blunder sends

her best friend stumbling into drunkenness—
the raspberry cordial which was really currant wine.

Then, the mislabeled bottle of vanilla which she,
daydreaming, did not think to sniff, resulting

in a lineament cake. He tells me it’s disproportionately
unfair, and asks me what Marilla’s word scapegrace means.

All week, he’s been trailing misery and missed
assignments, wadded bits of paper, hiding in his

long red hair, too aware of his deficiencies.
His thin frame bows and quivers—drawn.

I find another definition. Let Anne take off her apron,
walk out into the air of late October, thrill to see

a Scapegrace Loon unfurl its wings and lift across the pond,
the fire at its throat a crimson arrow in the dusk.

*

Alison Hurwitz (she/her), is a former cellist and dancer who finds music in language. Nominated for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, Alison hosts the monthly online reading, Well-Versed Words. Published in South Dakota Review, Sky Island Journal, SWWIM and others, her work was named as a finalist for RockPaperPoem’s 2025 Poetry Prize. When not writing, Alison officiates weddings and memorials, hikes, and dances in her kitchen with her family. Find her at alisonhurwitz.com